The Man in the Brown Suit

by Agatha Christie

A wild rush of feeling, hatred of the dead woman, surged through me. I could have killed her that moment, had she stood before me . . . For he must have loved her once—he must—he must—to have felt like that!

  I regained control of myself and spoke in my normal voice:

  “We seem to have said all there is to be said—except good night.”

  “Good night and good-bye, Miss Beddingfeld.”

  “Au revoir, Mr. Lucas.”

  Again he flinched at the name. He came nearer.

  “Why do you say that—au revoir, I mean?”

  “Because I have a fancy that we shall meet again.”

  “Not if I can help it!”

  Emphatic as his tone was, it did not offend me. On the contrary, I hugged myself with secret satisfaction. I am not quite a fool.

  “All the same,” I said gravely, “I think we shall.”

  “Why?”

  I shook my head, unable to explain the feeling that had actuated my words.

  “I never wish to see you again,” he said suddenly, and violently.

  It was really a very rude thing to say, but I only laughed softly and slipped away into the darkness.

  I heard him start after me, and then pause, and a word floated down the deck. I think it was “witch!”

  Seventeen

  (Extract from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler)

  Mount Nelson Hotel, Cape Town.

  It is really the greatest relief to get off the Kilmorden. The whole time that I was onboard I was conscious of being surrounded by a network of intrigue. To put the lid on everything, Guy Pagett must needs engage in a drunken brawl the last night. It is all very well to explain it away, but that is what it actually amounts to. What else would you think if a man comes to you with a lump the size of an egg on the side of his head and an eye coloured all the tints of the rainbow?

  Of course Pagett would insist on trying to be mysterious about the whole thing. According to him, you would think his black eye was the direct result of his devotion to my interests. His story was extraordinarily vague and rambling and it was a long time before I could make head or tail of it.

  To begin with, it appears he caught sight of a man behaving suspiciously. Those are Pagett’s words. He has taken them straight from the pages of a German spy story. What he means by a man behaving suspiciously he doesn’t know himself. I said so to him.

  “He was slinking along in a very furtive manner, and it was the middle of the night, Sir Eustace.”

  “Well, what were you doing yourself? Why weren’t you in bed and asleep like a good Christian?” I demanded irritably.

  “I had been coding those cables of yours, Sir Eustace, and typing the diary up to date.”

  Trust Pagett to be always in the right and a martyr over it!

  “Well?”

  “I just thought I would have a look round before turning in, Sir Eustace. The man was coming down the passage from your cabin. I thought at once there was something wrong by the way he looked about him. He slunk up the stairs by the saloon. I followed him.

  “My dear Pagett,” I said, “why shouldn’t the poor chap go on deck without having his footsteps dogged? Lots of people even sleep on deck—very uncomfortable, I’ve always thought. The sailors wash you down with the rest of the deck at five in the morning.” I shuddered at the idea.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “if you went worrying some poor devil who was suffering from insomnia, I don’t wonder he landed you one.”

  Pagett looked patient.

  “If you would hear me out, Sir Eustace. I was convinced the man had been prowling about near your cabin where he had no business to be. The only two cabins down that passage are yours and Colonel Race’s.”

  “Race,” I said, lighting a cigar carefully, “can look after himself without your assistance, Pagett.” I added as an afterthought: “So can I.”

  Pagett came nearer and breathed heavily as he always does before imparting a secret.

  “You see, Sir Eustace, I fancied—and now indeed I am sure—it was Rayburn.”

  “Rayburn?”

  “Yes, Sir Eustace.”

  I shook my head.

  “Rayburn has far too much sense to attempt to wake me up in the middle of the night.”

  “Quite so, Sir Eustace. I think it was Colonel Race he went to see. A secret meeting—for orders!”

  “Don’t hiss at me, Pagett,” I said, drawing back a little, “and do control your breathing. Your idea is absurd. Why should they want to have a secret meeting in the middle of the night? If they’d anything to say to each other, they could hobnob over beef tea in a perfectly casual and natural manner.”

  I could see that Pagett was not in the least convinced.

  “Something was going on last night, Sir Eustace,” he urged, “or why should Rayburn assault me so brutally?”

  “You’re quite sure it was Rayburn?”

  Pagett appeared to be perfectly convinced of that. It was the only part of the story that he wasn’t vague about.

  “There’s something very queer about all this,” he said. “To begin with, where is Rayburn?”

  It’s perfectly true that we haven’t seen the fellow since we came onshore. He did not come up to the hotel with us. I decline to believe that he is afraid of Pagett, however.

  Altogether the whole thing is very annoying. One of my secretaries has vanished into the blue, and the other looks like a disreputable prizefighter. I can’t take him about with me in his present condition. I shall be the laughingstock of Cape Town. I have an appointment later in the day to deliver old Milray’s billet-doux, but I shall not take Pagett with me. Confound the fellow and his prowling ways.

  Although I am decidedly out of temper. I had a poisonous breakfast with poisonous people. Dutch waitresses with thick ankles who took half an hour to bring me a bad bit of fish. And this farce of getting up at 5 am on arrival at the port to see a blinking doctor and hold your hands above your head simply makes me tired.

  Later.

  A very serious thing has occurred. I went to my appointment with the Prime Minister, taking Milray’s sealed letter. It didn’t look as though it had been tampered with, but inside was a blank sheet of paper!

  Now, I suppose, I’m in the devil of a mess. Why I ever let that bleating old fool Milray embroil me in the matter I can’t think.

  Pagett is a famous Job’s comforter. He displays a certain gloomy satisfaction that maddens me. Also, he had taken advantage of my perturbation to saddle me with the stationery trunk. Unless he is careful, the next funeral he attends will be his own.

  However in the end I had to listen to him.

  “Supposing, Sir Eustace, that Rayburn had overheard a word or two of your conversation with Mr. Milray in the street? Remember, you had no written authority from Mr. Milray. You accepted Rayburn on his own valuation.”

  “You think Rayburn is a crook, then?” I said slowly.

  Pagett did. How far his views were influenced by resentment over his black eye I don’t know. He made out a pretty fair case against Rayburn. And the appearance of the latter told against him. My idea was to do nothing in the matter. A man who has permitted himself to be made a thorough fool of is not anxious to broadcast the fact.

  But Pagett, his energy unimpaired by his recent misfotunes, was all for vigorous measures. He had his way, of course. He bustled out to the police station, sent innumerable cables, and brought a herd of English and Dutch officials to drink whiskies and sodas at my expense.

  We got Milray’s answer that evening. He knew nothing of my late secretary! There was only one spot of comfort to be extracted from the situation.

  “At any rate,” I said to Pagett, “you weren’t poisoned. You had one of your ordinary bilious attacks.”

  I saw him wince. It was my only score.

  Later.

  Pagett is in his element. His brain positively scintillates with bright ideas. He will have it now that Rayburn is none other than the famous “Man in the Brown
Suit.” I dare say he is right. He usually is. But all this is getting unpleasant. The sooner I get off to Rhodesia the better. I have explained to Pagett that he is not to accompany me.

  “You see, my dear fellow,” I said, “you must remain here on the spot. You might be required to identify Rayburn any minute. And, besides, I have my dignity as an English Member of Parliament to think of. I can’t go about with a secretary who has apparently recently been indulging in a vulgar street brawl.”

  Pagett winced. He is such a respectable fellow that his appearance is pain and tribulation to him.

  “But what will you do about your correspondence, and the notes for your speeches, Sir Eustace?”

  “I shall manage,” I said airily.

  “Your private car is to be attached to the eleven-o’clock train tomorrow, Wednesday, morning,” Pagett continued. “I have made all arrangements. Is Mrs. Blair taking a maid with her?”

  “Mrs. Blair?” I gasped.

  “She tells me you offered her a place.”

  So I did, now I come to think of it. On the night of the Fancy Dress ball. I even urged her to come. But I never thought she would. Delightful as she is, I do not know that I want Mrs. Blair’s society all the way to Rhodesia and back. Women require such a lot of attention. And they are confoundedly in the way sometimes.

  “Have I asked anyone else?” I said nervously. One does these things in moments of expansion.

  “Mrs. Blair seemed to think you had asked Colonel Race as well.”

  I groaned.

  “I must have been very drunk if I asked Race. Very drunk indeed. Take my advice, Pagett, and let your black eye be a warning to you, don’t go on the bust again.”

  “As you know, I am a teetotaller, Sir Eustace.”

  “Much wiser to take the pledge if you have a weakness that way. I haven’t asked anyone else, have I, Pagett?”

  “Not that I know of, Sir Eustace.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief.

  “There’s Miss Beddingfeld,” I said thoughtfully. “She wants to get to Rhodesia to dig up bones, I believe. I’ve a good mind to offer her a temporary job as a secretary. She can typewrite, I know, for she told me so.”

  To my surprise, Pagett opposed the idea vehemently. He does not like Anne Beddingfeld. Ever since the night of the black eye, he has displayed uncontrollable emotion whenever she is mentioned. Pagett is full of mysteries nowadays.

  Just to annoy him, I shall ask the girl. As I said before, she has extremely nice legs.

  Eighteen

  (Anne’s Narrative Resumed)

  I don’t suppose that as long as I live I shall forget my first sight of Table Mountain. I got up frightfully early and went out on deck. I went right up to the boat deck, which I believe is a heinous offence, but I decided to dare something in the cause of solitude. We were just steaming into Table Bay. There were fleecy white clouds hovering above Table Mountain, and nestling on the slopes below, right down to the sea, was the sleeping town, gilded and bewitched by the morning sunlight.

  It made me catch my breath and have that curious hungry pain inside that seizes one sometimes when one comes across something that’s extra beautiful. I’m not very good at expressing these things, but I knew well enough that I had found, if only for a fleeting moment, the thing that I had been looking for ever since I left Little Hampsley. Something new, something hitherto undreamed of, something that satisfied my aching hunger for romance.

  Perfectly silently, or so it seemed to me, the Kilmorden glided nearer and nearer. It was still very like a dream. Like all dreamers, however, I could not let my dream alone. We poor humans are so anxious not to miss anything.

  “This is South Africa,” I kept saying to myself industriously. “South Africa, South Africa. You are seeing the world. This is the world. You are seeing it. Think of it, Anne Beddingfeld, you pudding head. You’re seeing the world.”

  I had thought that I had the boat deck to myself, but now I observed another figure leaning over the rail, absorbed as I had been in the rapidly approaching city. Even before he turned his head I knew who it was. The scene of last night seemed unreal and melodramatic in the peaceful morning sunshine. What must he have thought of me? It made me hot to realize the things that I had said. And I hadn’t meant them—or had I?

  I turned my head resolutely away, and stared hard at Table Mountain. If Rayburn had come up here to be alone, I, at least, need not disturb him by advertising my presence.

  But to my intense surprise I heard a light footfall on the deck behind me, and then his voice, pleasant and normal:

  “Miss Beddingfeld.”

  “Yes?”

  I turned.

  “I want to apologize to you. I behaved like a perfect boor last night.”

  “It—it was a peculiar night,” I said hastily.

  It was not a very lucid remark, but it was absolutely the only thing I could think of.

  “Will you forgive me?”

  I held out my hand without a word. He took it.

  “There’s something else I want to say.” His gravity deepened. “Miss Beddingfeld, you may not know it, but you are mixed up in a rather dangerous business.”

  “I gather as much,” I said.

  “No, you don’t. You can’t possibly know. I want to warn you. Leave the whole thing alone. It can’t concern you really. Don’t let your curiosity lead you to tamper with other people’s business. No, please don’t get angry again. I’m not speaking of myself. You’ve no idea of what you might come up against—these men will stop at nothing. They are absolutely ruthless. Already you’re in danger—look at last night. They fancy you know something. Your only chance is to persuade them that they’re mistaken. But be careful, always be on the lookout for danger, and, look here, if at anytime you should fall into their hands, don’t try and be clever—tell the whole truth; it will be your only chance.”

  “You make my flesh creep, Mr. Rayburn,” I said, with some truth. “Why do you take the trouble to warn me?”

  He did not answer for some minutes, then he said in a low voice:

  “It may be the last thing I can do for you. Once on shore I shall be all right—but I may not get onshore.”

  “What?” I cried.

  “You see, I’m afraid you’re not the only person onboard who knows that I am ‘The Man in the Brown Suit.’ ”

  “If you think that I told—” I said hotly.

  He reassured me with a smile.

  “I don’t doubt you, Miss Beddingfeld. If I ever said I did, I lied. No, but there’s one person onboard who’s known all along. He’s only to speak—and my number’s up. All the same, I’m taking a sporting chance that he won’t speak.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a man who likes playing a lone hand. And when the police have got me I should be of no further use to him. Free, I might be! Well, an hour will show.”

  He laughed rather mockingly, but I saw his face harden. If he had gambled with Fate, he was a good gambler. He could lose and smile.

  “In any case,” he said lightly, “I don’t suppose we shall meet again.”

  “No,” I said slowly. “I suppose not.”

  “So—good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  He gripped my hand hard, just for a minute his curious light eyes seemed to burn into mine, then he turned abruptly and left me. I heard his footsteps ringing along the deck. They echoed and reechoed. I felt that I should hear them always. Footsteps—going out of my life.

  I can admit frankly that I did not enjoy the next two hours. Not till I stood on the wharf, having finished with most of the ridiculous formalities that bureaucracies require, did I breathe freely once more. No arrest had been made, and I realized that it was a heavenly day, and that I was extremely hungry. I joined Suzanne. In any case, I was staying the night with her at the hotel. The boat did not go on to Port Elizabeth and Durban until the following morning. We got into a taxi and drove to the Mount Nelson.

  It
was all heavenly. The sun, the air, the flowers! When I thought of Little Hampsley in January, the mud knee-deep, and the sure-to-be-falling rain, I hugged myself with delight. Suzanne was not nearly so enthusiastic. She has travelled a great deal of course. Besides, she is not the type that gets excited before breakfast. She snubbed me severely when I let out an enthusiastic yelp at the sight of a giant blue convolvulus.

  By the way, I should like to make clear here and now that this story will not be a story of South Africa. I guarantee no genuine local colour—you know the sort of thing—half a dozen words in italics on every page. I admire it very much, but I can’t do it. In South Sea Islands, of course, you make an immediate reference to bêche-de-mer. I don’t know what bêche-de-mer is, I have never known, I probably never shall know. I’ve guessed once or twice and guessed wrong. In South Africa I know you at once begin to talk about a stoep—I do know what a stoep is—it’s the thing round a house and you sit on it. In various other parts of the world you call it a veranda, a piazza, and a ha-ha. Then again, there are pawpaws. I had often read of pawpaws. I discovered at once what they were, because I had one plumped down in front of me for breakfast. I thought at first that it was a melon gone bad. The Dutch waitress enlightened me, and persuaded me to use lemon juice and sugar and try again. I was very pleased to meet a pawpaw. I had always vaguely associated it with a hula-hula, which, I believe, though I may be wrong, is a kind of straw skirt that Hawaiian girls dance in. No, I think I am wrong—that is a lava-lava.

  At any rate, all these things are very cheering after England. I can’t help thinking that it would brighten our cold Island life if one could have a breakfast of bacon-bacon, and then go out clad in a jumper-jumper to pay the books.

  Suzanne was a little tamer after breakfast. They had given me a room next to hers with a lovely view right out over Table Bay. I looked at the view whilst Suzanne hunted for some special facecream. When she had found it and started an immediate application, she became capable of listening to me.

  “Did you see Sir Eustace?” I asked. “He was marching out of the breakfast room as we went in. He’d had some bad fish or something and was just telling the headwaiter what he thought about it, and he bounced a peach on the floor to show how hard it was—only it wasn’t quite as hard as he thought and it squashed.”